


In Loving Memory

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mom is just an idea to Blaine, though. She’s a memory. But this, it’s real. A gravestone, a name and a date, the tree that watches over her like some sort of ancient guardian—those things are real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Loving Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a commission, posted with permission.
> 
> Set sometime between season 2 and 3.

“We don’t have to do this,” Kurt whispers, staring out the window of the car—and not at Blaine, definitely not at Blaine, how could he even think about looking at Blaine right now?

“I know,” Blaine responds, voice soft and soothing, his hand curling around Kurt’s where it’s lying limp in his lap. The car has been parked for nearly fifteen minutes now, but Kurt hasn’t so much as touched his seatbelt. This had been his idea, it’s something that  _he_  wanted, but now that he’s here—well, things really are easier said than done. “But you want to do this.”

Kurt swallows, eyes blearily focused on the tall wrought iron fence.

“And I want to do this.” Blaine’s fingers lace with Kurt’s. “But you’re right, we don’t have to.” His thumb sweeps bace and forth, gentle and comforting, and Kurt closes his eyes. “We can go and get ice cream instead, maybe rent a movie.”

Kurt breathes out a laugh, finally looking over at Blaine, who is smiling at him in that encouraging-yet-understanding way he does.

“Can’t we get ice cream afterwards?” He squeezes Blaine’s hand, and Blaine squeezes back.

“Absolutely.” Blaine stares at Kurt for a moment, and then pulls the key from the ignition. “Ready?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Kurt clicks out of his belt, and stares at his hands—they aren’t shaking. He doesn’t really feel nervous, it all just feels so  _big_. It shouldn’t, and maybe Kurt is being kind of ridiculous about the whole thing, but this just isn’t something he shares with everyone. It’s a part of Kurt that will always be a little raw, a little vulnerable, and a little scary to show to anyone.

But this is  _Blaine_. Blaine, who believes in him and supports him. Blaine, who stood up in front of a room full of bigoted assholes and asked him to dance. Blaine, who  _loves_ him.

And Kurt trusts him with every fiber of his being.

“Kurt?” Blaine sounds anxious, a little worried even, but Kurt sends him a tight—and hopefully reassuring—smile.

“Let’s go.” Their hands slide apart, and Kurt leaves behind the weird sense of safety that the car gave him. It makes his breath come a little faster, and he feels too loose and free, like he might slip and lose contact with the ground entirely, floating away until he just isn’t himself anymore.

Blaine’s hand finds his again—an anchor, a weight, a welcome pressure that keeps Kurt in his body.

They don’t say anything else as Kurt leads them away from the car, through the gates, and up the grassy hills of the cemetery. He knows the way to his mom’s grave by heart, of course, and could walk there with his eyes closed—he comes here less often than maybe he should, but more often than people probably think he does. He’s only been here once since he and Blaine stopped being a  _you and me_  and became a  _we_.

Kurt takes a deep, settling breath, and Blaine stays silent and present at his side.

It’s not about the fact that his mom is dead—it’s something him and Blaine have talked about, on those days when Kurt has felt this aching  _need_  for her, the sort of need that can’t be filled by something else. It’s a dull sort of pain, one that becomes easier to live with, a hole in his chest that becomes a part of him rather than ever actually healing. Blaine had been there, had held him even before they really meant anything to each other, had listened as Kurt talked about her for hours on end.

His mom is just an idea to Blaine, though. She’s a memory. But  _this_ , it’s real. A gravestone, a name and a date, the tree that watches over her like some sort of ancient guardian—those things are real.

“I should have brought flowers,” he whispers. Blaine squeezes his hand.

“Next time,” Blaine assures him, and Kurt can’t help the wobbly smile that forms on his face. Because people don’t like death—they back away from it, they don’t talk about it, and they go as long as possible ignoring the fact that it can and does happen. No one likes graveyards, but here’s Blaine, holding his hand and saying  _next time_  like Kurt is proposing they go and get smoothies. He squeezes Blaine’s fingers a little tighter.

“This is it.” He stops, staring at the gravestone and letting out all of his air in one long, slow exhale. He fidgets in the silence, and then looks back at Blaine. “Blaine, this is my mom—Elizabeth.”

Blaine looks at him, and everything stretches too long, all of Kurt’s insecurities and fears bundling up tight in his stomach like a ticking bomb. But then Blaine smiles, small and soft, and sinks to the ground, tucked on his knees in front of Kurt’s mom’s grave.

“Hello, Mrs. Hummel,” he says, and Kurt presses a hand to his mouth, closes his eyes—because he hasn’t cried at his mom’s grave in a long time, and this is such a silly thing to cry about.

Sometimes Kurt does feel stupid—there’s a part of him that acknowledges that he’s essentially talking to a piece of stone, a plot of dirt, a wooden box that holds bones. It’s not his mom. But then there’s the part of him that remembers being eight years old, that remembers watching the box get lowered into the ground, remembers clinging to his dad’s hand and thinking,  _this is where she will always be from now on_.

It’s one of the only places left in the world that connects Kurt to her. If he can’t have her, not really, can’t he just pretend? For a little bit?

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Blaine continues, and Kurt blinks his eyes open and stares at the engraved print of his mom’s name.

 _Don’t cry_.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, and I’m a big fan of your seven layer bars. You taught Kurt well.”

Kurt laughs, wet and choked, and Blaine reaches up and takes his hand again, without looking away.

“He talks about you a lot,” Blaine says, dropping his voice quieter, and Kurt tears his gaze away from his mom’s headstone down to the top of his boyfriend’s head. “And I can tell how much you meant to him, and how much you still mean to him.” Blaine looks up at Kurt then, their eyes locking. “Your son means a lot to me, Mrs. Hummel, so anyone that’s important to him is important to me.”

They’re in a graveyard, and it’s practically deserted, but Kurt still wants to fall down beside Blaine and just  _kiss_  him in that moment. He blinks rapidly, feels a tear slip out of the corner of his eye and pretends it isn’t there.

“I’ll never get to properly meet you.” Blaine looks away again, back towards the grave. “But hopefully I measure up to your standards. They’re probably pretty high, but that’s understandable. Kurt’s pretty extraordinary, and he deserves the best.”

Kurt scoffs, presses his lips together.

“…I love your son very much, Mrs. Hummel. And I’ll do right by him as much as I can.”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt whispers, brokenly, and does fall to his knees then—lets his jeans press into graveyard grass as he clutches at Blaine’s hand.  _I love you_ , he wants to say, but it doesn’t feel like enough in that moment. There aren’t any words that seem like enough, like they can do justice for what Blaine just did for him without realizing he was doing it. So Kurt closes his eyes, and says, “thank you,” and tries to put everything he’s feeling into those two little, insignificant words.

Blaine’s finger brushes at the few tears Kurt couldn’t keep in, and it makes Kurt smile. Because he’s not sad—there are still times that he is, when it comes to his mom, but now is not one of them. She’s precious to him, but he doesn’t share her with  _anyone_ but his dad.

Well, he didn’t.

He looks at Blaine again, his breathing rough with the sobs that want to come out, and his smile grows. Because it feels good to share more of his heart with Blaine.

“I love you,” Blaine says, reverent and like a promise all at once. It’s still so new, still means so much, but—no. It will always mean that much. And Kurt laughs with the sudden burst of joy he has, watches the smile bloom across Blaine’s face, and wishes he could kiss him.

“I love you, too.” He presses his untangled hand over where Blaine’s is cupped against his cheek. It’s too close for where they are, but Kurt just needs a few seconds—just a few—to appreciate this moment. When he does pull away, Blaine lets his hand fall without complaint, watches as Kurt shifts until he’s sitting more comfortably. Their fingers stay linked.

“Have I told you about the time we tried to plant a vegetable garden in the backyard?” Kurt asks, toying with Blaine’s fingers, and Blaine settles his weight and looks at Kurt attentively.

“Tell me again.”

So Kurt does.


End file.
